


just for tonight

by Illyria_Lives



Series: when does it become a habit? [1]
Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Blow Jobs, Did you ask for this shit? No! Did I deliver anyway? Perhaps!, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Or..., PWP, Porn Without Plot, Unhappy Ending, but no tags for a reach around :/, depends on how you read it I guess - Freeform, ish?, wow there are a lot of super specific blow job tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 04:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14908391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illyria_Lives/pseuds/Illyria_Lives
Summary: For a moment, he and Favor look at one another, each one swaying in his own fog, the saloon still rolling above them in the air, and Favor has no idea who cracks first, but the next thing he’s aware of, they’re leaning together, cackling with laughter.  All of the other nonsense they have to contend with on the drive, but here they are, so overbearingly, pleasantly drunk Favor isn’t even thinking of the morning now, not at all, with Rowdy’s shoulder pressing against his.Rowdy leans so heavily they list, off-balance, boots slipping in the mud.  Favor manages to grab Rowdy’s vest and the wall, and Rowdy’s arm loops over Favor’s shoulder.  They’re laughing as they regain their balance, a knot of limbs.  They’re laughing as the world reasserts itself the proper manner.  Favor can feel Rowdy laughing as his hand drags down Rowdy’s chest, can feel the cords of muscle in Rowdy’s arm as it tightens, a thumb at the top of his shirt, the nape of his neck, Rowdy’s other arm coming up in his periphery, and then they’re no longer laughing because Rowdy’s mouth is over Favor’s and the world isn’t spinning anymore.





	just for tonight

**Author's Note:**

> What else I am supposed to do on my vacation in Britain besides finish this shameless piece of pornography? Finished on an iPad so if there are any mistakes blame Steve Jobs.
> 
> Also, obligatory “I haven’t written smut in forever” disclaimer.

On one hand, Gil Favor can appreciate that the liquor in this particular town isn’t watered down, but on the other hand, here he is, drunker than he’s been in ages, needing to lean against the sideboards as he goes for the first time in a long, long time.  It’s almost funny, but his own warning to the men of getting on the trail at the crack of dawn is echoing back at him from the beginning of the night. So, almost funny.

Sometimes, but not often, he wishes he wasn’t boss of his outfit.  Specifically, nights like this. It has to be past midnight, and here he is, head swimming as he drags himself along the side of the saloon building, towards the back, where he knows the outside stairs will bring him to the cheap rented rooms.

Around the alleyway, now.  He can hear the raucous laughter and bouncing music from the saloon proper, where he left the other drovers at the tables, arms wound round women’s waists, drinks or money in hand and soon to disappear.  He has no idea how the others aren’t sliding off the bar. Maybe he’s losing his touch. Maybe he ought to go in with the other men more often— he’s losing his tolerance. Losing his edge. Becoming like Wishbone.  Now there’s a frightening thought.

A second frightening thought comes at him out of the darkness of the alleyway as a man stumbles past him.  Favor’s hand goes to his gun— not that he can do more than blind fire with his head like this— but the man has his own demons and doesn’t give the drunken trail boss any mind.  He’s got one hand to his nose, fingers cherry-red and slick, and Favor lets him pass with a tilted head. Then he keeps dragging himself forward, only to stop within a few feet, because there’s a familiar form, hat hanging off a gun by stampede strings.

Rowdy Yates is leaning against the saloon wall much like Favor is, only he’s stable and planted, not trying to move, hands braced on his thighs and his breath coming heavy.  Favor picks up the speed then has to return to an amble because the ground is refusing to stay still beneath his boots. Whatever hellfire was in that liquor, he’s almost tempted to go teetotal.

He gets out Rowdy’s name, slurring on the  _ r _ , and Rowdy goes for action just as Favor had done when the mysterious man passed him moments earlier.  Then he squints, recognizes Favor, and relaxes, slumping to the wall with an easy lean. “Hey, Boss,” he says, like its nothing.

Favor gestures after the man with the bleeding nose.  “That some kind of trouble?” He hopes it isn’t, because he can’t deal with that right now.  He can barely deal with staying upright right now, let alone an incident.

Rowdy nods.  “Handled it,” he says, matter-of-fact, showing off one hand in a fist.

For a moment, he and Favor look at one another, each one swaying in his own fog, the saloon still rolling above them in the air, and Favor has no idea who cracks first, but the next thing he’s aware of, they’re leaning together, cackling with laughter.  All of the other nonsense they have to contend with on the drive, but here they are, so overbearingly, pleasantly drunk Favor isn’t even thinking of the morning now, not at all, with Rowdy’s shoulder pressing against his. 

Rowdy leans so heavily they list, off-balance, boots slipping in the mud.  Favor manages to grab Rowdy’s vest and the wall, and Rowdy’s arm loops over Favor’s shoulder.  They’re laughing as they regain their balance, a knot of limbs. They’re laughing as the world reasserts itself the proper manner.  Favor can feel Rowdy laughing as his hand drags down Rowdy’s chest, can feel the cords of muscle in Rowdy’s arm as it tightens, a thumb at the top of his shirt, the nape of his neck, Rowdy’s other arm coming up in his periphery, and then they’re no longer laughing because Rowdy’s mouth is over Favor’s and the world isn’t spinning anymore.

Like a gunshot, everything bursts into detail all at once: the way Rowdy’s mouth tastes, open-lipped, against his own, the way his blood is heating up, the smell of the night air, the mud, the material of Rowdy’s shirt in his hand, and how hard Rowdy is already, pressed against Favor’s thigh.  His gun in it’s holster. How Rowdy gasps against his lips.

And then, like the damage after a gunshot, blood soaking up through a shirt, the rest of the world comes fading up to the surface of Favor’s mind.  They’re out in the open, the saloon windows a half floor above their heads, the street at the end of the alley, and his ramrod— his  _ ramrod _ , who can’t be too far above one-and-twenty— is sucking on his tongue.  

And he’s kissing back.

It’s all instinct, something tells him.  It’s just the sensation he’s gone so long without, its the drink, it’s the night air and the moonlight that makes him take Rowdy’s face in his hands and keep on pressing, getting a touch rough, at least it seems like it because Rowdy makes a sort of keening noise in his throat that makes Favor’s cock twitch in his pants.  Someone’s against the wall, then they’re tilting, then Favor manages to come to some sort of sense and breaks it off, gasping, seeing lights setting off behind his eyelids that resolve themselves into stars, the sky, and Rowdy’s face.

“Rowdy,” Favor says, and his voice is a low pitch that surprises him.  His ramrod’s eyes are unfocused, lips looking roughed up, a blush rising up his neck.  His hands, his big rough drover hands are pressing against Favor’s chest, sliding up. The skin on skin contact that comes at the unbuttoned collar of his shirt sends a curling shiver right to Favor’s spine.  Rowdy hooks a crooked finger into the ropy twist of Favor’s bandana, tugs just slightly, and then without saying anything he leans in and starts kissing at Favor’s neck.

His eyes slight shut, and his head tilts back to allow access— just instinct, that voice is telling him again, it’s only instinct and the fact he’s never been kissed like this before— he’s kissed the necks of plenty of women and now he understands why it is they let him keep doing it.  The contact there is sending skittering sparks across his skin, and when Rowdy’s teeth catch the sparks become a wave, and some kind of noise escapes Favor’s mouth that he will never admit to having made— if he can remember having made it come morning.

“Rowdy,” Favor says again, only this time he manages to make his ramrod pause, and the sudden lack of sensation on his neck is almost worth mourning.  But the wiser part of Favor is pushing Rowdy back—not shoving, but not wholly gentle, either.

Rowdy blinks up at Favor.  He’s still got one finger looped in his bandana, and he shuffles his feet to keep his balance.  Favor is still holding on to the front of his shirt. Rowdy swallows— Favor watches as he swallows.

“Boss?” Rowdy asks, and a sudden wave of fatigue washes over Favor from his boots upwards.

A glass breaks.  Someone in the saloon hollars and whoops.

“Come on,” Favor says, and pulls Rowdy after him.  Rowdy keeps opening and closing his mouth, but with another insistent tug and a “ _ Now _ ,” Favor manages to get him moving down the alleyway, towards the back of the saloon.

They don’t run into another single soul, and Favor has half a mind to question if any other person exists right now.  It certainly doesn’t feel like it. Getting them both up the stairs— and  _ staying  _ up the stairs, as opposed to falling back down them— takes up all of his mind for a moment, and Rowdy is no help.  Not that Favor is particularly sober, but Rowdy is winning any contest they’re having when it comes to being liquored up. It’s almost too much to be believed. Favor tries to think back to the last time that night he’d seen Rowdy, but his burned-out mind can’t handle it.  If anything, the second Rowdy left Favor’s sight he started drinking, and didn’t stop until Favor found him in the alley.

Rowdy starts giggling once they’re at the top of the stairs.  Favor shushes him, keeping him against his side with one arm slung across his shoulders— although Rowdy always eats like he’s starving the boy’s a heavy, muscled weight at his side— and gets them into the hallway and into his room with very little trouble.

As soon as the door to the room is closed behind them, Rowdy comes back into control of his limbs and Favor finds himself pressed against the door, this time with Rowdy’s wide hands pressing like irons into Favor’s waist, reaching up beneath his vest, up his back.  He’s mouthing at Favor’s neck.

“No,” Favor manages to get out, and he gets his hands on Rowdy’s arms, wrestling slightly and stepping away from the door.  “You’re too drunk,” Favor says, and deposits Rowdy onto the bed with a half-hearted throw he’s used to, has definitely done before in different rooms above different saloons; but then he’s staggering himself, cursing, bracing himself with his ass against the wooden dresser that shares the small space, one hand massaging his forehead.

“You could drink more,” Rowdy slurs, props himself up on his elbows.  Favor can’t figure how his shirt got unbuttoned so low on his smooth chest.  He’s grinning, all teeth, like he’s somehow winning the argument.

“That’s not gonna help any,” Favor sighs.

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“ _ Could  _ hurt.”  That’s saying it.  Mistakes could get made; mistakes he isn’t comfortable making for so many reasons, least of all that they’ve got a good several months of trail left ahead of them.  And for all of those months he’s going to have to face Rowdy. It’s already enough to know what it feels like to kiss him, to feel him hard against his thigh, but there’s still so much they could do.  The very ghost of a notion of some of those things makes heat pool in Favor’s belly.

They look at one another.  Rowdy, on the bed, Favor, against the dresser.  Favor has to shift how he’s standing; Rowdy’s eyes go from his mouth to his groin, his damn mouth pulls into a grin, and well, his grin ain’t that bad to look at.  His legs, spread. The room is much darker than the street, no moon, no stars, just wood and shadows, so small a space that there’s nowhere else Favor can look but at Rowdy.

Favor doesn’t move as Rowdy stands.  Rowdy seems to be swaying— or perhaps the whole room is tilting on an axis Favor can’t feel.  It’s just the drink, he tells himself, the drink and the cigar smoke that’s coming up from the saloon below their feet, and the music, and when Rowdy kisses him, it’s slow, it’s leaning, and at any moment Favor thinks, I could move right now, stop this right now.  Right  _ now _ .  But then, there’s Rowdy Yates, kissing him, and he’s kissing him back.  He lets his hands go up and tangle in Rowdy’s thick hair, and he swallows the noise Rowdy makes, or almost makes because Favor can feel it rather than hear it.

Then Rowdy has one hand at the front of Favor’s levis, so light at first Favor thrusts into it, just instinct, just instinct, but then Rowdy’s more sure of himself and Favor thinks to himself, I could stop this right now, all I have to do is move—  _ move _ .  But he doesn’t move.  Because here he is, drunk, and there’s Rowdy Yates with a mouth he’s got no business having, kissing at his neck, then down his chest, and Favor holds onto the edge of the dresser on either side of his hips like his legs could go any moment.

There’s Rowdy Yates, on his knees, mouthing at the front of Favor’s trousers, and God, Favor’s hasn’t been this hard in so long, he feels like it’s some kind of dream.  He takes his right hand and pushes it through Rowdy’s mop of shining hair, back off of his forehead, and Rowdy’s eyes, looking up at him are something Favor can’t handle right now.  His eyes, his hair in Favor’s hand, and the way his wide mouth turns into a drunk, sharp grin.

“Been thinking about this a while,” he says, softly.

“Rowdy…”

“Boss.”

Favor knows he should say no.  He knows Rowdy is drunk, and he’s drunk, and two drunk men like this only leads to trouble.  He knows that Rowdy is young and God alone knows how many times he’s been on his knees before— he knows that he has to face Rowdy in the morning and every morning for the rest of the drive, all the way to Sedalia.  

But, then again, he is drunk.  That’s no lie—although not so drunk the decision is made for him, the hardness of his cock can attest to that not being an issue.  Among all these other small things, he also knows how good and wet Rowdy’s mouth looks, his fucking mouth, the way Rowdy’s eyes slide closed as Favor thumbs at the corner of his mouth, and God damn it.  What were the odds of either of them remembering this tomorrow? 

And so, after a long, dark moment Favor says, “You ever done this before?”

He outlines Rowdy’s lips with the pad of his thumb; Rowdy is enthralled, eyes closed, lost in the sensation.  His mouth opens, slightly, Favor can feel how hot it is, the edge of his teeth, the tip of his tongue, and then Rowdy seems to register the question, and his eyes flicker open.

“Yeah,” he says, and swallows.  He sits back on his heels, but his hands remain on Favor’s thighs, like he’s an anchor.  Like if it weren’t for him, he’d be falling back into the wooden floor, down and down, back into the saloon.  “In Yuma…” Favor’s lip is curling before he even knows why; the ghost-images of a young Rowdy, on his knees in some dirty hole with cajoling men come at him from the mists of his overloaded mind.  But then Rowdy pushes on forward. “Buzz and I…” he seems unable to finish thoughts, every sentence he starts fading out into nothing but air. He’s got his eyes on Favor’s face and he’s frowning.

Favor makes the outright decision to make his touch light, caressing, not letting Rowdy lean too far out of reach.  Not dirty prison men, but a fair-haired boy, friends, perhaps lying together in the dark. That’s fine; that’s life.  That’s nothing to get protective over. He imagines Buzz clumsy, Rowdy all hands and thighs and sideways grins. 

“Just Buzz?” Favor hears himself ask.

“Just Buzz,” Rowdy repeats, with a nod.  His face is growing redder, and without any prodding he leans back in, hiding his blushing face against Favor’s thigh.  His hands are stroking, contemplative on Favor’s thighs, and Favor feels the urge to thrust, to move his hips, but he tightens his grip on the edge of the dresser with his left hand.  He’s not going to take this farther than Rowdy is willing to go. Not that he’s going to stop— but he’s not going to force.

Rowdy curses, and again starts lipping at the bulge in Favor’s trousers, inhaling deeply.  “Mr. Favor,” he says, and stops himself. 

Suddenly Favor’s mouth is dry.  Is he really going through with this?  There’s a moment, a crystallized moment, where he could say no.  Where he could take his hand off of Rowdy’s head, get himself out of the room, get back to the herd and remove this entire night from his mind.  

There’s the moment.  And then it’s gone.

The first thing to go is Favor’s gun belt.  It’s Rowdy that undoes the buckle and the thigh-tie, but Favor takes his hand off of the dresser and off of Rowdy’s head to catch the belt and put it aside.  He has to twist his torso to do so, and Rowdy gets his shirt up and out, and then the button on the fly of his levis, and the first touch of skin against skin sends a wave through Favor that almost drops him right then and there.  

Favor turns back and freezes, again gripping the edge of the wooden dresser like his life depends on it, because Rowdy has his cock out and in his hand and is staring at it like it’s the only water for miles in the desert.  His tongue plays wetly with his lips; a bead of precum wells on the head. Rowdy curses, in awe it seems, and if that isn’t something every man goes for in the bedroom, Favor ain’t interested in being a man anymore. If Rowdy keeps on looking at him like that, Favor is going to break off a piece of the dresser.  If Rowdy keeps looking at his cock like that, things are going to go very differently very soon. The bed, in the corner, leans.

It almost seems to happen in a slow, sledge-like pace, but a small part of Favor that’s more sober than the rest and knows better, well, knows better.  But it all seems so glacial, how Rowdy leans forward, not to take him in his mouth, but to lick a wet stripe up the shaft, the underside, his dark eyelashes darkly fanning against his ruddy cheek.  Favor tilts his head back, because even just looking at Rowdy right now, at his own cock right now, makes several noises all vie for freedom from his mouth.

Rowdy licks him, again, wetting him all over and it’s nothing but torture as his tongue laves away at the slit, curling over the head.  Deep in Favor’s belly a hook is catching and pulling, up, curling his toes with the lift and then one of his hands is tightening in Rowdy’s hair, far too tightly to be comfortable.

“Don’t play with me,” Favor growls, and steals a glance downwards.  He can see where he’s pulling too hard at Rowdy’s hair, where the skin of the scalp is turning pale, but the rest of Rowdy’s face looks punch-drunk and all too pleased with himself.  Smiling that grin that makes Favor so angry sometimes he wants nothing more than to break Rowdy’s shoved-up nose.

“Tastes real good,” is all Rowdy says, and that hook in Favor’s belly jerks, hard.

“Boy—” whatever it is he’s going to say flies out of his head as Rowdy takes him in his mouth, almost full deep in one plunge before he has to stop, coughing.  But he doesn’t pause for even half a second before he bobs his head once more, tongue doing wonders as he hollows his cheeks and Favor makes a noise he hopes he won’t remember come morning.

Everything else melts away, one stroke after another, as Favor lets his eyes close: first the smell of the cigar smoke, then the noise of the saloon, then the very feeling of the floor beneath Favor’s boots.  It all comes spinning down to Rowdy, the sensation of his mouth, heat, wetness, the light touch of his hands, the noises he’s making. It’s slow, each motion of Rowdy’s head a drag, long, lingering, and before long the hook in Favor’s belly is demanding more, more friction, more speed, more  _ something _ .  

“Come on,” he thinks he says beneath his breath, and thrusts forward.  There. Again, he pushes into Rowdy’s mouth, hearing the small grunt as he struggles to take him all in, hands down on the jut of his hipbones.  If he’s trying to hold Favor back— but he’s not. Favor’s got both hands in Rowdy’s hair, now, holding tight and if Rowdy’s trying to move back Favor’s not giving him an inch.  “Fuck, so good…”

Favor opens his eyes, looks down, sees Rowdy looking up, cheeks hollow, face red, chest red.  His ramrod has one hand down between his own legs, now, touching himself, and his hollow cheek bulges as Favor pushes in; his thumb feels at the head of his own cock as it stretches Rowdy’s cheek.  Rowdy’s gun belt hits the floor, heavy, as he opens his belt up, one-handed, and his eyes close and the moan in his throat hums around Favor’s cock so good he jolts forward, gasping.

At first he’s worried he’s gone to far, but Rowdy doesn’t choke, doesn’t pull back.  He’s still now, letting Favor fuck into his mouth, and his hand is down the front of his trousers like he’s going to run out of time.  Something about the sight, about the sensation, about the whiskey in Favor’s blood and how good it feels, how much he’s missed this, how much he’s wanted to do this— no, no, he’s not following that train of thought for a thousand dollars per head of cattle.  Instead, he focuses on Rowdy, on the fire licking it’s way up his spine, his toes curling in his boots. 

“You like that, huh?” Favor hears himself say.  Rowdy moans once more, and Favor almost loses his rhythm, feels the white-hot cliff’s edge of his release on the horizon.  It’s one thing, the way Rowdy had looked at his cock in awe and hunger, and it’s another thing, much larger, to know that all Rowdy wants is to let Favor use him— how he had said,  _ been thinking about this a while _ .  “You feel so good,” Favor says, gripping Rowdy’s hair so tight in one hand it shakes with the strain, “Been thinking about— sucking my cock— letting me—  _ fuck  _ your mouth—” 

Rowdy pushes with his one hand still braced on Favor’s hip and pulls back off of Favor’s cock.  The sudden lack of heat, of suction, and the cool night air makes Favor hiss, haul on Rowdy’s hair, but there’s nothing he can do as Rowdy licks his reddened lips.

“You keep talking like that,” Rowdy says in a huff, red-faced, grinning with his rushed mouth, “I ain’t gonna last much longer.”

Again, Favor moves his thumb around Rowdy’s mouth, is surprised at how Rowdy revels in the sensation, almost leaning into it.  His hand still moves, trousers undone but not pushed very far down his thighs; Favor can’t even see his length, only his wrist, the edge of his shirt, where his abdomen begins to dip down, a light dusting of pale hair.  He looks and can’t stop looking. 

“Boss?” Rowdy asks, quietly.  His eyes are half-lidded, and he’s moving his head, moving his mouth against Favor’s still thumb, letting it into the wet hollow of his mouth, not sucking but letting it go in and out of the ring of his lips.  Favor can feel each plume of Rowdy’s heavy breathing like smoke. 

When he finds his voice again, he says, “Did I say you could stop?”

For a second, Rowdy looks up at him, eyes wide, listing drunkenly to one side, and then he breathes out, “Yes sir,” and takes Favor back into his mouth.

His rhythm is stuttering— he can’t last much longer— feeling like grinding his heels down into the dirt, he holds his breath and stops his forward motion, and Rowdy’s name is in his mouth, to say  _ I’m going, I’m going to _ , but Rowdy isn’t having it.  He’s back to sucking, back to pushing himself forward onto Favor’s cock, even as Favor is letting go of his hair, leaning his ass back against the wooden dresser— again Favor thinks of Rowdy grinning, saying so softly  _ been thinking about this a long time  _ and a wall of sensation crashes into him, full-body.

It’s a few heavy, panting moments before Favor comes back to his senses. He’s still leaning against the dresser, hands at his sides, but he’s spent in the warmth of pleasure, and Rowdy is no longer sucking his cock, which is a hell of a thing to hit Favor so obliquely: Rowdy had sucked his cock, had made him come like he had been kicked by a bronco, and is now in the state of having once sucked his cock. Favor can count on one hand the ladies who have ever done him the pleasure, and now Rowdy is forever amongst their rouge-lipped ranks.

Through the afterglow haze and the still latent drunkenness, Favor realizes Rowdy has only moved a bare few inches away, still on his knees. His eyes are on Favor’s face, and something wet and pale is dripping down his chin. As Favor watches, Rowdy so slowly brings his free hand up—he’s still touching himself, still pushing into his own fist—and wipes clumsily away at the mess. And then, he licks his palm with slow, deliberate strokes, tongue darting between his fingers. Getting every last drop. Lord Almighty, Favor thinks, if he’s going to be remembering anything about this night it’s going to be that sight, and it’s going to haunt him till his dying day.

Rowdy shudders and his eyes slide closed. He moans, hips jerking into his hand, and although he hasn’t said anything, hasn’t asked for anything, hell, he basically begged to be allowed to suck Favor’s cock, the sight of him fucking his own fist with Favor’s come in his mouth makes Favor feel like he has to do something. He has to. He’s not ready for this to be over.

The rough drag of his voice surprises even him as he speaks up, says, “Come here,” and even as Rowdy is opening his eyes in surprise Favor put himself away, back into his levis, and then has hands on Rowdy’s shirt, pulling him up off of his knees. Rowdy is horrendously unsteady on his feet, from the whiskey or the fucking Favor doesn’t feel qualified to discern, and they crash into one another much like they had in the alleyway. Tongues and hands. Favor tastes his own come, salty in Rowdy’s mouth, and Rowdy’s cock presses, wet, against his thigh. 

If there was a moment where Favor could have stopped, this time around he completely misses it. It just drifts by, invisible, and then is gone like smoke he is sure he should have been able to smell, but every sensation other than Rowdy is gone from his mind. Just his hands, Rowdy’s mouth and how he breaks off the kiss to gasp, “Please… please…”

Not that Favor is inexperienced, but there’s a part of him shocked at how easily even with the sway of liquor that he takes stock of the situation, puts his hands on Rowdy’s hips, and roughly turns his ramrod around. Not even that, but how he clocks the room they’re in, chooses to put his foot down and  _ not  _ go towards the still empty, waiting bed, and instead turns Rowdy to the dresser.

Rowdy braces himself with both hands against the wooden dresser, right where Favor had held on for dear life while Rowdy sucked his soul out of his cock, and Favor crowds in against his back, reaching with one hand up beneath the bottom of Rowdy’s shirt, work-roughened palm sliding against smooth, hot skin, his other hand on Rowdy’s hip and keeping him from pushing his ass too far back against Favor’s still sensitive groin.

When Rowdy looks at him through the reflection of the mirror, he looks so honestly astounded that Favor feels a surge of genuine affection well up in his chest. His Rowdy Yates. His ramrod. Then he recognizes how dangerous that line of thought is and quenches it. He lets Rowdy’s eyes switch from his face to his hand as he brings it up and licks his palm in a long, slow swipe. Then he reaches down and wraps that hand around Rowdy’s cock and the noise that Rowdy makes is something Favor has never heard before, from man nor woman, in bed or out of. It’s a red-hot branding iron, right against his belly.

The drunken, turning sway of the room is back, and Favor is unaware of who has the dominant motion: him, jerking Rowdy off with his hand, pulling, pushing, or Rowdy, fucking into his hand, arching his back up into Favor’s body. They’re in contact from knee to chest and Favor feels like their bodies are the only source of heat left in the evening chill. He remembers how Rowdy had reacted to the sound of his voice, but Favor is barely capable of speech. He’s nothing but movement and motion.

For what feels like an eternity but in sober reality can be no longer than a few moments, a minute or two, Favor does nothing but let Rowdy’s cock slip through his hand, trying to keep a rhythm but Rowdy just wants it faster, harder, and he shivers as Favor kisses his neck like he’s kissed so many women’s necks before. But that was before— that was the taste of powder and perfume. Rowdy tastes like sweat, like the road, like woodsmoke from the campfire. Favor closes his eyes, leans in to where Rowdy’s neck meets his shoulder, his collar all bent and creased to hell, breathes in the scent of his skin, feeling drunker now than he did just five minutes prior. He may have kissed women like this plenty of times, but it is almost frightening, how different this is. How much he likes it.

Then, something passes over him. A strangely familiar sensation, but oddly out of place— the sensation of being watched. He glances up, into the foggy mirror hung above the dresser.

Rowdy is looking at his own reflection, panting, red-faced, Favor biting and kissing at his neck, Favor’s one hand pulling on his cock, his other spreading over his chest below the last done-up button of his shirt, his heartbeat almost a single sensation under Favor’s hand, and Favor meets Rowdy’s eyes through the mirror. He can’t look away. How did he get here? His shirt sticks to his back with sweat. Rowdy’s ass presses against his cock. Rowdy’s gripping the edge of the dresser so hard his knuckles are white and all he can do is choke out a few brief pleas that are lost in his own moans.

Favor bends his head, puts his mouth close to Rowdy’s ear and whispers in a way he hasn’t whispered in a long, long time, “Come for me. Come for me.” And he twists his hand around Rowdy’s cock, pulls, twists, slick, “Come for me, Rowdy.” 

When he does climax, Rowdy’s entire body goes rigid, and Favor can feel it in every place they’re touching. He’s quiet, almost silent as pleasure overwhelms him, mouth open and eyes closed. Then, he’s shuddering, shivering, leaning back into Favor’s body like he’s the only stable thing in the room, which, granted, to someone as sloshed as Rowdy appears to be, he just might be.

Slowly, Favor becomes reacquainted with the noise of the saloon still rollicking beneath their feet. He becomes able to smell the cigar smoke, alcohol, and beneath it all the smell of sex. His clothing sits on his skin and he wishes he could shuck everything, get down to just skin, and stretch out somewhere warm and comfortable.

But he can’t. Because Rowdy is coming down from his high— his  _ ramrod _ is coming down from his high, with Favor’s come in his mouth and his cock in Favor’s hand, growing soft, come on the front of the shoddy wooden dresser the saloon owner saw fit to decorate his rented rooms with—and reality is coming back into focus.

Reality.

Sometimes, Favor wishes he wasn’t the boss of this outfit. Now is one of those times. 

Rowdy leans against him, but Favor recognizes that they can’t stay like this. He puts both hands on Rowdy’s hips and walks him backwards, turns, and just as he had tried to do earlier in the night, deposits Rowdy onto the bed, where he falls in a jointless, easy pile. His chest, exposed and flushed, rises and falls. Favor drags his eyes from Rowdy’s chest, his still exposed cock, to Rowdy’s face. He’s watching Favor with half-lidded eyes. Until that moment, Favor thought he knew what bedroom eyes entailed. As it turned out, he had no idea what bedrooms eyes were, and what they could do to him.

“Come here,” Rowdy says, slurring.

“In a minute,” Favor hears himself reply. His voice feels like it’s climbing out of his chest, hand over hand up his ribs, past his hard-beating heart. Sure, he’s not a young man anymore, not really, so there might not be much he can do in that bed with Rowdy besides sleep, but he’s wary. How did he get here? While he knows concretely all that he’s done and what’s been done to him, part of him feels left behind in that alleyway, uninformed and confused as to where he was, what he was doing.

Favor makes sure to clean up the wooden dresser with the small towel the saloon thought fit to provide, hanging by a chipped water pitcher, and tosses the towel aside. There’s not much else in the room that indicates what they’ve been doing. His gun belt is almost falling off of one side of the dresser; he takes a moment to right it, and looks at Rowdy through the mirror once more. He looks almost asleep. Peaceful. He’s not used to Rowdy looking quite so debauched nor quite so peaceful. Happy, yes, perturbed yes, annoyed, frustrated— these are all of the phases of Rowdy Yates that Gil Favor has come to know over their time together. Like peeling back paper pasted over a painting, Favor is uncovering something new. Something he drinks in. He has no idea how long he stands and watches the reflection of Rowdy doze, but with a shake Rowdy wakes himself back up.

“Boss…” he slurs, and pushes himself up on his elbows. Favor walks over and gently, carefully, only making contact with the tips of his fingers, pushes Rowdy back down onto his back.

“Get some rest,” he says. When he tries to move away, Rowdy reaches up and secures a surprisingly strong hold on his shirtsleeve. It’s almost petulant, the way he tugs. Favor smiles, gently, almost to himself.

“Come on,” Rowdy slurs, and tugs on Favor’s sleeve with more insistence. “Boss… got to get them beeves moving in the morning.”

“Alright,” Favor sighs and half-laughs. He lowers himself carefully down on to the side of the bed but Rowdy isn’t content with just that. It’s only once Favor is laid completely out on his back. He doesn’t know how to feel when Rowdy doesn’t try and cozy up to him, but just remains laid out on his side of the bed, the only thing touching between them where Rowdy’s hand lightly encircles Favor’s wrist. Rowdy even turns his face away. For a time, in the darkness, Favor looks at the curve of his cheek, the jut of his chin. The lines of his bare neck.

Only once he’s sure Rowdy is asleep does Favor move. His drunkenness is leaving him, slowly ebbing out into something more stable, and with the last few bits of clarity he has he slips out of the bed, gathers his things, and leaves the room.

He ends up tucked into a pile of hay in the livery stable, like he’s twelve years old again and hiding out from someone. He’s lucky the stable is full, otherwise it would be a cold and wet evening; the horses add warmth to the air and its almost comfortable. With the straw poking at him, the whiskey waning, and feeling thoroughly fucked, Favor falls deep asleep.

* * *

Horses are often awake before men ever need to be, and it’s the shifting and gentle knickering of the horses in the livery stable that wake Favor up just a scant hour or so past dawn. He groans as soon as he realizes he is awake and not in some nightmare, head a spike of pain.

What had he told the men the day before? He struggles to remember. Images and flashes of sensation jump out at him as he gets up and stretches his sore body: Pete waving over his head as he races off, some anonymous drover pressing yet another whiskey into his hand, the sound of chips and dice on the felt-topped table. A man with a bloody nose in an alley. His hands knotting in Rowdy’s shirt.

Rowdy. Favor frowns, both from the sunlight as he walks out of the livery stable, and from the fact that while the details are hazy, he can remember the previous night. He remembers it like a dream, which perhaps parts of it are. He tries not to think about any of it in too much detail, because the one time he tries, as he’s going into the saloon and collecting his drovers off of almost every available surface, he can feel himself responding in ways women never managed to do. Goddamn. What in hell did Rowdy’s mouth do to him?

Wishbone is at his worst. Favor contemplates murdering him. His attempts at a hangover cure makes Quinn vomit, and Favor puts his foot down. No food until noon break, and Wishbone had better get out of his sight before Favor gives  _ him  _ a break. The mountain man goes off with a cackle, far too pleased to be legal.

They’re behind on time, but Favor doesn’t have it in his overclocked system to give the men a proper lashing. Although, he has to admit they’re all moving faster than he had expected of them, and it takes him through a meeting with a bleary and probably still partially drunken Pete for him to realize that the men are tickled by how he, the Great and Mighty Trail Boss Gil Favor, not only got drunk off of his ass, but is now in the deep throes of a hell of a hangover. Well, he has to admit he likes the results, but not enough to ever try it again in the near future. He and Pete mount up together and agree on a slow, meandering path for the day. They’ve made good time so far, and can easily make it up over the coming days.

As soon as Pete takes off to scout their way, Rowdy rides up. Favor has to keep tight hold of the reins and his dignity to keep from bolting in the opposite direction. It’s fine. They were drunk. Too drunk. Drunk enough— and as Rowdy gets closer, Favor can see clearly how haggard his face looks. He even looks worse than Favor himself feels as he pulls up to a stop beside Favor on the rise.

“Mornin’, Rowdy,” Favor hears himself say, voice damn near close to normal.

“Morning, Mr. Favor,” Rowdy says, squinting beneath the brim of his hat. 

Favor tries not to think of Rowdy gasping  _ Mr. Favor  _ on his knees, one hand down his trousers, and nods. “You feeling alright?”

“Like there’s a railroad spike between my eyes,” Rowdy groans, which does not help Favor’s mental processes any. He looks out over the heard, and there’s that rush of tenderness. He’s going to be a trail boss in his own right one day, and it’s times like this, in the saddle despite what must be a hell of a hangover, ready to work. In fact, he hasn’t even complained yet. 

He hasn’t even complained yet. Suddenly, paranoia fills Favor’s mouth with a bitter taste. Several moments are dedicated to Favor attempting to come up with something to say. 

Rowdy beats him to it.

“What do you remember from last night?” Rowdy asks, and Favor feels his insides turn cold, very cold. He looks at his ramrod, carefully: aside from the marks of a sleepless night and the general ideas his mouth starts up in Favor’s brain, he looks sincere. The hangover isn’t helping any but Favor struggles to remember whether or not Rowdy is a good liar, to him especially. He comes up blind. “Boss?” Rowdy prompts. He’s frowning. “What’s the matter, something bad happen?”

“No, no,” Favor manages to say on a broad exhale. He shakes his head and shrugs. “‘Least, I don’t think so. Last thing I remember is stumbling out of the saloon, truth be told.” He forces a laugh. “Didn’t even wake up in the room I rented.”

“Guess I must have rented a room,” Rowdy says, and scratches at the back of his head, and squints at his nails. “Seeing as how I woke up in one with no idea how I got there.”

“Better a room than a stable,” Favor hears himself say.

“I dunno,” Rowdy replies. He touches at the corner of his mouth with his middle finger, and winces. “Feels like I got kicked in the mouth.”

To that, Favor can say nothing, but there’s an uneasy stirring in his cock. He works the reins from hand to hand, making his horse step high, and then settles back down. There’s no way. There’s no way that Rowdy can remember all of what happened the night before.

Then Rowdy takes his middle finger, that he had scratched at the corner of his mouth with, puts it in his mouth, and sucks on it. His cheeks go hollow, Favor’s heart skips a beat, and then the finger is out of his mouth and Rowdy is looking at Favor. He says nothing. Favor waits, but Rowdy says nothing. That in itself is strange—or Favor is going slowly mad.

He shakes his head to clear it and is rewarded with another spike of pain. They’ve got a long way to Sedalia. It feels like it’s a lifetime away, and for some reason Favor doesn’t feel too poor about the thought of ages on the trail with Rowdy looking at him.

Favor finds his voice. “Head ‘em up!” he shouts, and waves his arm over his head, “Move ‘em out!”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> >:3c
> 
> Whether or not Rowdy actually remembers the night before is up for debate. Whichever you like best, lmao


End file.
